


The Sweater Curse

by AClever_Username



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Completed, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Soft knitting shenanigans, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: Now how could there possibly be danger in a homemade jumper?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 90
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley’s mind abuses italics what can I do

Crowley stopped dead.

“What’s that.”

Aziraphale didn’t look up; he was peering down through the glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Hello to you too Crowley dear,” he said, and patted the space beside him on the sofa.

Crowley didn’t move. “What’s. That.”

“Well at the moment it’s uhm – I think it’s a sleeve? Or, er -”

Aziraphale picked up the coil of wool, turning it over in his hands, then back at the pages in the book beside him. “…Some kind of hem.”

He dropped it back in his lap. Crowley wondered how it had the _nerve_ to be in _his_ space.

Aziraphale smiled up at him. “I’m _attempting_ \- being the optimal word Crowley, you can curb the insults – well to make you a jumper.”

Crowley couldn’t believe this was happening to him.

And also, in a panicked, far more dread filled way:

_Crowley couldn’t believe this was happening to him._

The first, wondering version of the thought was because he was still trying to understand how on earth he’d had the luck (and it _was_ an extraordinary amount of luck) to have not been discorperated or otherwise horribly sizzled by holy water up until the point where Aziraphale was _his,_ (well, they were each other’s really) and that his angel was thoughtful enough to make _him, Crowley,_ a _demon,_ a jumper.

The second, rather more horror-struck version of the thought was because of _course_ his luck had run out. Of _course_ this, this _disaster_ had come upon him, just when he wasn’t worrying about it; when he’d put this particular threat out of his mind as he’d never seen Aziraphale so much as glance at a pair of knitting needles.

“I know how cold you get in the winter dear,” Aziraphale continued, “and now that I have a bit more time on my hands,” he took an involuntary pause and looked upwards as if he’d jinxed himself and the _real_ reckoning was about to befall them. Thankfully it didn’t. “… I thought I’d give it a go.”

Through slight hysteria Crowley glared at the navy lump. It stubbornly refused to ignite.

“Burn it.”

Aziraphale startled.

“...I’m sorry?”

“Set it ablaze. No, even better, give it to me and I’ll douse it in hellfire – obliterate all chance of its woolly soul hanging about.”

Aziraphale was beginning to look Quite Affronted.

“Well I thought you’d take the surprise a _little_ better Crowley.”

“It’s not the _surprise_ , angel, it’s, it’s,” he waved his hands about. He could see no way of explaining without falling into the _thing’s_ trap. “It’sssss-”

Damn he’d let his s’ get away from him again.

“Just stop any jumper making escapades altogether,” he continued. _And I’ll put that somewhere where it can’t hurt us. - _One of his least favourite, distant, and most importantly, _very incinerate-y_ stars perhaps.

Aziraphale was starting to look a little riled up and slightly pompous, having moved on from Affronted and into Annoyed. Usually there was a certain amount of fun in getting him just a bit cross, but circumstances weren’t usual.

“I was simply doing something nice.”

And it _was_ nice – so incredibly, wonderfully nice that Crowley was hit with another wave of the First Kind of Disbelief.

The Second Kind still had him wondering desperately how to avert an event that was most definitely in his opinion worse than the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, so perhaps he could be excused for deploying even _less_ brain cells than usual when he spoke (and the amount used normally was already pitifully low).

“Yeah, well, maybe, just – don’t.”

Aziraphale blinked behind his glasses.

Then, avoiding Crowley’s eye, he picked up the puddle of wool in his hands to resettle it as he crossed his legs.

“Fine,” he said, and his tone made Crowley stop tracking the bundle with his eyes like it would pounce at any minute and focus, on the downturned press of Aziraphale’s lips and the slightly haughty (and Crowley knew, defensive) tilt of his nose.

Aziraphale brushed imaginary dust from his trousers. “I can see you don’t want it. No need to be so dramatic.”

And Oh Good God No Crowley had _still_ somehow been ensnared by the woolly web of destruction. ‘Cross’ was fine; ‘cross’ was sort of cute on the angel but Aziraphale was _upset_ he’d made Azi _upset_ and for that crime the holy water should’ve taken him.

Horrified, Crowley dove into Aziraphale’s lap, ‘accidentally’ violently kicking the mess of jumper to the floor (he gave it a couple of stamps too for good measure), and forcing Aziraphale to uncross his legs to permit him to fit there. Squirming Crowley tried to rearrange himself so that he was _somehow_ balanced, and despite Aziraphale’s apparent lack of co-operation, when Crowley almost slipped spectacularly to the floor, he caught him.

“I take it back. I want the jumper.”

“You don’t have t-”

“I want the jumper. That’s my final word. I _demand_ you make me it actually.”

Aziraphale rested one hand on Crowley’s knee to keep him stable.

“But three seconds ago Crowley-”

“Forget three seconds ago. Three-second-ago-Crowley was an idiot,”

“Implying you’re not _still_ an idiot.”

He was looking very resolutely at a shelf.

Crowley gave it a second.

“….Make me the jumper,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale gave him an unimpressed look through the bottom of his glasses.

“I get cold,” he muttered, and Aziraphale huffed.

And though Crowley knew it was just ever so _slightly_ a dirty trick, he added:

“Please.”

He could feel the way Aziraphale softened as looked at him again.

“And you promise not to be rude about it?”

Crowley nodded frantically.

Aziraphale was pretty astoundingly bad at hiding his smiles and for that Crowley was thankful, for one stole across Aziraphale’s face and a big, red, glaring _CRISIS AVERTED_ sign flashed behind Crowley’s eyes (Metaphorically of course. A _literal_ big, red, glaring _CRISIS AVERTED_ sign would, in fact, be a crisis). 

Aziraphale made himself more comfortable and let all talk of jumpers drop, instead starting on the tale of the customers who had the gall to not only remove books from the shelves but to bring them up to the counter - _Bags at the ready! –_ and Crowley listened, precariously curled up in his favourite place, thrumming with nervous energy about what he’d set into motion by allowing the jumper to live.

* * *

Around the start of the 21st century, knitting clubs had a revival.

This has relevance, as there was a certain amount of boredom involved in being a demon on earth (especially _before_ said demon had told the respective forces of heaven and hell to royally fuck off in the most spectacular way possible, and wasn’t free to pester his angel constantly. Just _near_ constantly). 

Crowley therefore stumbled along, trying to find ways to occupy his time. (It’d been with a certain amount of alarm that he’d realised it was possible to become bored of sleep. It was a fault he would take up with Her if they ever managed to have words again).

He had been sitting (lounging was a more accurate term) in an armchair in the reception of some place or other, watching person after person struggle with the set of glass double doors that neglected to tell them whether to push or pull, but _didn’t_ swing both ways (his invention). There was also a comically slow revolving door to catch those who thought they’d thrive where their more conventional door takers had fallen. As they shuffled in an agonising circle, they were forced to admit they hadn’t.

“You alright?”

Crowley jolted; looked round and up at a young woman in a headscarf, looking at him with amusement.

“Just you’ve been sitting in here a while. And I know for a fact that the vent behind you roasts anyone who sits in that chair to death within the half hour mark.”

It did. It was exactly why Crowley had chosen the chair.

“Uh,” he said, “I’m just cold.”

The woman still looked amused. “You want a scarf?”

“…What?”

She opened the bag on her shoulder and fished out a great woollen scarf in mint green, then held it out.

“If you’re cold, you can have this.”

Suddenly it was being dropped on him and he struggled to catch it, swinging one leg from the arm of the chair to sit straight.

“Uhhhh…”

“Don’t worry – I have loads,” she said, “I’m a bit of a knitting fanatic.”

Crowley was perplexed. “Knitting?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, and held open her bag so Crowley could peer in. It was crammed with a vibrant mound of wool and terrifying looking spikes.

“I have a club – there’s quite a few of us actually. It’s fun – and it gives me something chill to do after work.”

Crowley had absolutely no idea why he was being told this.

She closed her bag, then regarded him for a second. He was still juggling the oodles of mint green.

“Would you like to come?”

_“Me?”_

“Sure.”

And after a second of thought, and to be fair the absurd situation required a second, Crowley agreed.

It could NOT, after all, be any worse than his brief stint at bee keeping.

* * *

Tasmin, as mint scarf lady turned out to be named, introduced him to the circle of what she called her ‘knitting fiends,’ and after opening a cupboard and almost burying him in the craft supplies that spilled out, sat him down firmly in a spare chair with an air of permanence. As if there was no question that Crowley would be coming back.

And he did come back. Week after week. The whole thing was ridiculous but Crowley’s entire _existence_ was ridiculous, so he rolled with it. 

He wasn’t particularly good, but that didn’t seem to matter, and wielding the stabby things was a bonus. There was near constant gossip that gave him some truly excellent ideas for minor inconveniences (for a circle of people mostly draped in soft wool they could be delightfully wicked), an excess of blankets Crowley volunteered to take off their hands (he PILED those bad boys on his bed), and mugs and plates of tea and cake routinely passed around (the tea was his; the cake he saved for Aziraphale).

Overall, _definitely_ better than the bee keeping.

“It claimed another,” said Grace, a woman with an especially pointy blue Mohawk, one knitting club evening as she entered, dumping her bag and flopping down in her seat.

Now _that_ made Crowley stop struggling with his slip stitch and snap his head up.

“Katie and Lucille?” guessed Tasmin.

Grace gave a grave nod, and it started a Mexican wave of shaken heads around the circle. Some tuts, a solitary gasped _No! ,_ and murmurs rippled around the room.

“What a shame.”

“I’ll miss seeing ‘em, y’know?” 

“I _warned_ Katie,” said Tom, waving the hand holding his mug wildly enough that tea threatened to slosh over the side at any moment, “I said to her: this spells The End. You’re making your own destruction.”

Crowley had gone from Curious to Mildly Alarmed. He _almost_ missed the Battenberg’s as the plate was passed under his nose and had to make a mad lunge for them (Aziraphale was particularly fond. Crowley liked to use them as little marzipan building blocks).

“How many more? How many more naive fools will fall victim?” cried Grace.

“The problem is,” said Jem. They were as bad at knitting as Crowley but made the best tea by far. “They all think _‘oh it won’t happen to me’.”_

There were further murmurs of agreement.

Crowley waited for an explanation. He was given none.

“What-” he began, “what happened?”

Everyone stopped knitting in unison. Crowley was _extremely_ unnerved.

Grace looked him dead in the eye. 

“The Sweater Curse.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter's a little short sorry but exposition's gotta exposition)

The curse was simple. And dastardly effective. Make a significant other a sweater (‘jumper’ Crowley silently corrected, as he frantically scrolled the wiki page), and it will lead to a break up.

Preposterous.

Mere folly.

He was _from_ hell – he would’ve heard of something with that amount of genuine destructive power.

…Right? 

(The answer is no. He wouldn’t have. He went (or used to go. Suck it Beelzebub) down there as little as possible, and then made it his personal mission to _listen_ as little as possible. Therefore it was very, _very_ possible he was even part of a committee on it at some point (it was hell. Of course, there were committees)).

The curse had more than one way to strike.

_Misdirected Attention:_

Poor Katie and Lucille.

Katie had such good intentions. She’d worked on the jumper day and night (and also all of those weird in-between times too). Her laptop wheezed under the weight of a million tabs open on technique and tutorials and complicated looking diagrams and then much _simpler_ versions of those complicated diagrams and an Amazon cart stocked full of knitting supplies she was on the cusp of buying at any moment.

So much time on a passion project for her girlfriend.

Exactly what the curse was counting on.

All time spent on the dastardly relationship ruining garment was time spent away from each other. And so the wedge between them was driven. And so their relationship joined the kill list.

Jumpers couldn’t cackle with glee. But if they _could_ then Katie was certain hers went full bond villain, complete with cat.

_Unlucky timing:_

Tasmin, after some prodding (verbally _and_ physically) reluctantly spilled that she’d done it. Knitted a jumper. And as she’d finished the very last touch she’d been broken up with.

She came back home alone to a jumper several sizes too big goading her on its hanger on the outside of her wardrobe.

( _‘Goading’_ was Grace’s interjection. Tasmin insisted that was stupid – of _course_ it wasn’t hanging with any malicious intent. Or any intent at all. It. Was. A. Jumper. 

When pressed to say whether it was hanging perfectly _innocently,_ then, she kept a careful silence).

Her explanation was perfectly rational. Knitting it had taken a long time, and the relationship had died of ‘natural causes.’ The phrasing of which, of course, strongly evoked the image of a crime scene investigation, and the looks exchanged between several around the circle confirmed that the general consensus was that a certain jumper had blood on its hands - Sleeves.

_Catalyst for Analysing the Relationship:_

Grace insisted that in her experience handing over that jumper was akin to sticking your own head in the relationship noose. A garment so full of time/effort/thoughtfulness and a whole lot of other synonyms had seemed practically like a proposal to her boyfriend.

Which was bad, apparently.

He ran for the hills. Tripped over an untied shoelace. Picked himself up. Continued running.

Good riddance to that guy, honestly.

But still; the bomb that set it off? ‘Twas the tainted touch of the jumper. (She refused to phrase it any other way).

_Rescue Mission:_

Jem’s brother thought things couldn’t get any worse between him and his girlfriend. He was wrong.

As dramatic gestures go, cheesecake, a trampoline neither of them owned and a bonfire consisting of the burning remains of his frantically knitted jumper was certainly up there. Shame he was aiming for more the ‘end of a rom-com' kind of drama. And so a week of watching Love Actually daily in preparation went down the drain.

Or rather, up in flames, like a certain offending woolly object of destruction .

There were more cries from around the circle:

_Aversion -_ A pen-pal’s partner had simply not wanted to wear anything hand knit (to be read: didn’t want to wear anything that looked barely recognisable as being meant for a human being, or the colloquial term, shit).

_Insignificant gratitude_ \- Straight up ungratefulness. Handing over your labour of love to such lacking enthusiasm suddenly and vividly made you understood what it was like to be the gran who gifted socks instead of one of the 70+ approved items from the Argos catalogue.

_New Interest -_ The problem with sneaking around behind a partner's back in aid of a surprise gift, is that to said partner in question it looked an awful lot like sneaking around behind their back in aid of an affair. You'd expect that kind of misunderstanding to be comical. Apparently not.

Tom explained that some understood the grave, grave, danger enough to wait until marriage before making each other a jumper; a great aunt had insisted on the signing of a ‘pre-knitual agreement’ before things had a chance to get dangerously out of hand. Wise move, it was agreed.

Crowley listened, with rapt attention, and at the _time_ wasn’t horrified. Such a thing couldn’t touch _him._

Dramatic irony. What a useful literary tool.

The _lovely_ idea to make Crowley a jumper had Jaws-themed its way into Aziraphale’s head.

Crowley’d be damned (Well. Y’know. Whatever the expression is when you’re _already_ damned) if he was going to let the best thing that had ever happened to him be ruined, not by Satan himself – they’d _survived_ Satan himself – but by a _Jumper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly took the little sub-headings straight from the wiki page, 'cos yes - this is real, if you fancy a google


	3. Chapter 3

The jumper had to die.

More importantly; the jumper had to die in such a way that it didn’t hurt Aziraphale’s feelings.

A difficult job.

It required exquisite expertise.

…Crowley was most definitely not the man for the job.

He began simply.

Wouldn’t it be _convenient_ if Aziraphale’s work in progress went missing? And could never be found again.

Ever.

It was easy enough to steal – ahem – _purloin_ it; Aziraphale left it lying in comfy places and _Crowley_ was also always in the comfy places. It did mean that he couldn’t shake the feeling it was looming over him like a spectre on the sofa or in Aziraphale’s flat above the shop or even on his favourite shelf (it was deep enough to sit on and so therefore was incredibly superior to a Chair).

He dug out the gloves he’d used for the holy water to handle it – just in case – and only when it was dangling from his fingers did he realise he hadn’t actually thought about _where_ to hide it.

(A lot of Crowley’s ideas were rash and ill-thought out. The plan had been, in this instance, to make sure they _weren’t,_ but then the rash and ill-thought out plan to hide the thing had come to him and so obviously he needed to get on that _immediately_ and shunt the whole ‘make better plans’ thing further down his to-do list).

So, having obtained it, he was stuck in the bookshop, no idea what to do with it.

First things first. It was going no-where near the Bentley.

It would have to get conveniently lost within the bookshop.

Luckily it was a warren of a hidey-holes.

One particular back corner harboured Aziraphale’s least favoured books that he’d amassed over the years, as well as several other objects he didn’t know what to do with. It was the bookshop’s equivalent of the Junk Drawer (there were even some take-away menus and batteries rolling around for authenticity. They were both equally confused about the batteries). 

Crowley took the jumper over. The new editions Adam had left in the shop had been moved to said Forgotten Corner, and made a wonderful barricade with which to shove the bundle behind. Crowley took a certain amount of malicious pleasure in sealing it back up in its dusty tomb. He stepped back to admire his excellent hiding place, dusting off his hands – taking a moment to choke on said dust -before sliding back to smug satisfaction.

He sidestepped a pile of old calendars and stationery that just _might_ come in useful as replacements (Aziraphale’s favourite and so therefore one and only pen had yet to stop working despite having run out of ink a solid few decades ago) to thoroughly enjoy the rest of his existence, knitting-related curse free. (He wasn’t sure he could go so far as to say _entirely_ curse free – he’d been on the receiving end of a good ol’ cursing a fair bit and was sincerely hoping none of them came back to bite him on the arse - maybe literally. Who knew what curses were out there)?

The joy lasted three hours.

Crowley was seconds away from flopping down on the sofa when he spotted it - curled like a housecat on a cushion, the sharp points of its needles innocently tucked away beneath the stitches – and had a heart attack.

Or near enough anyway. He missed the sofa and sat with a hard thunk on the floor, staring wide eyed at the jumper that should’ve decayed to dust in its prison of household crap, convinced it was staring back from the high ground, convinced it really _was_ sentient.

Aziraphale found him that way, carrying a stack of books.

“Everything alright Crowley?”

“Th – the-” He pointed to the knitting.

“Oh!” Aziraphale set down the pile of books, “you’ll never believe where I found it! It’d somehow got itself into The Corner-”

Crowley did _not_ enjoy the personification.

“…and those batteries _must_ do something, I’m sure, but-”

“Why were you back there?” Crowley interrupted in a near whisper.

“Well! There I was, politely assuring a customer that there was absolutely nothing for him in here when – just as I’d got him outside – he mentioned he’d seen some children’s books he was really rather keen on, and-”

“Adam’s books,” Crowley said dully.

“Precisely!” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley.

Crowley managed a strangled noise whilst Aziraphale wittered away above his head. 

“…the funny thing is I don’t remember the last time I went back there to have lost it…”

Slightly Less Rash Plan Number 2: Distraction.

One key fact about Aziraphale that Crowley held dear was that he was very easily tempted – all Crowley had to do to get him to abandon – and ideally, forget entirely – the jumper he was working on was suggest the _suggestion_ of an activity they could do together.

A new restaurant. An old restaurant they’d yet to visit. Restaurants they _had_ visited but that had since added new menu items and so _absolutely_ required another visit.

Several theatre programmes were completed systematically from front to back. The ducks were fed like royalty.

For a while, it worked brilliantly. Aziraphale could really get talking, and Crowley was happy to listen to him for hours on end, plus getting drunk (a good 50% of Crowley’s plans involved getting senselessly sloshed) had never _not_ been a big hit in 6000 years. 

The problem (because of course there was a problem) was winter. The very season was working against him.

Just like the grass on the cold earth, after a few weeks activities were thin on the ground. And the ones that were left - (did someone say an entire re-run of Golden Girls start to finish?) – required sitting. For extended periods of time. Where one could knit. 

The jumper crept back out. And Crowley couldn’t even enjoy the look of concentration on Aziraphale’s face he was so busy telling himself not to panic.

(Which as you can imagine, went well. Panic definitely wasn’t behind the many legged, all caps spider diagram hastily scribbled on a whiteboard bought for the occasion. Not at all).

It was to the last, unchecked idea on the diagram that Crowley, frazzled, turned to in desperation:

_DESTRUCTION._

The jumper had to die, he reminded himself. It was life versus death. _It,_ or him and Aziraphale.

Pilfered again, under the cover of darkness, (there was no need for the darkness. Aziraphale didn’t sleep and was just as likely to catch him at 3am than 3pm. But 3am felt suitably clandestine) Crowley stole the jumper away on foot, for even in its final moments it didn’t deserve the Bentley.

He hadn’t been joking about the hellfire. He was taking no chances.

Placing it on what had undeniably become a near altar of wood and dousing it liberally in petrol (just for good measure – see Taking No Chances, above) alone in a clearing with only the moon and the sounds of foxes shagging for company (it was still London) somehow took the crown for the most cult-y thing Crowley had ever done.

He set it ablaze, imagined he could hear its screams as it perished (still the foxes), and sagged with genuine relief as the flames flickered in the reflection of his glasses.

He also felt terrible, of course. Aziraphale had been working so hard, had been so enthusiastic. But in a move that made the entire scene even _more_ cult-y , Crowley assured himself that he had done what needed to be done _for the Greater Good._

The pyre – how had it become a pyre? – burned down to embers, then once it had stopped smouldering beaten with a big stick Crowley had found for a bit, and was vanished very literally off the face of the earth.

The deed was done.

Crowley went home, planning a plethora of ways to make it up to his angel. 

He’d yet to get round to telling Aziraphale what had happened. He was _going to,_ he swore, but he’d ~~chickened out~~ strategically stayed silent, and surprisingly, Aziraphale didn’t seem to be missing it. During the three hours it had been gone before he’d incessantly asked Crowley about its whereabouts, but after The Burning Crowley hadn’t heard a peep about it. Aziraphale seemed as contented as usual. And Crowley wasn’t about to bring the accursed thing _up_ now, was he?

His feet were stretched in Aziraphale’s lap. A sole browser was mooching around in the shop, posing no danger of attempting to actually purchase an item as he’d darted in out of the sheeting rain outside and had been staring blankly between his watch and an unmarked spine of a book for the last ten minutes.

The mood then, was relaxed. Crowley was chatting away. He had started with some sort of point, he was sure of it, but it’d gotten a bit lost along the way. No matter. If he kept talking he was sure he’d find it again, and he had nothing but lazy relaxation on the cards for him that afternoon.

Aziraphale was half-listening, nose in a book, one hand on Crowley’s ankle. Briefly _both_ hands rested there as he put his book down and gave Crowley his full attention for a few minutes.

Thunder from outside.

Lightning.

The hands left as Aziraphale leaned over and rummaged for something out of Crowley’s sight. He leaned back, still nodding at Crowley’s words. Words that were cut off with a barely suppressed gasp of horror as Crowley recognised the impossible:

The jumper in progress he’d sacrificially burned to mere particles, whole in Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale, oblivious, fiddled with the bundle, which looked considerably larger than Crowley remembered. It brushed his ankles and he shuddered. He hid his mouth behind a shaky hand.

“What’s that?” he asked feebly.

Aziraphale gave him an odd look.

“Your jumper, Crowley.”

The hum Crowley gave in response was just a _tad_ hysterical.

“But-”, he said, “how-” He swallowed. He had to keep calm. His bouncing leg would’ve rattled glasses on shelves in Scotland if it had not still been in Aziraphale’s lap. “Wasn’t there… another?”

Understanding dawned on Aziraphale’s face. “Oh I see! Don’t worry dear, you’re not going mad!” he chuckled.

Crowley really hoped that was true. Currently it wasn’t looking promising.

“I started again,” Aziraphale explained, lifting up what he’d done in demonstration. “The first attempt refused to go _quite_ the way I wanted – speaking of which I’ve not seen it since Thursday last.” He paused, gave what at all other points in his life Crowley would call an adorably tiny frown, then shook himself.

“Not to worry – of all the things to have gone missing what an extraordinary stroke of _luck_ it was to be something utterly redundant! Crowley? Crowley!” 

Crowley was in shock

_It knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a day late oops


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley was acting strange

-er than usual.

(And that was saying something).

Aziraphale was aware Crowley thought this small fact had escaped his notice, and was politely going along with it.

Aziraphale had definitely, definitely noticed.

Now. The odd, apparently inexplicable bought of erratic behaviour was very On Brand for Crowley, and not too concerning. Not concerning at all actually. Aziraphale would’ve batted more of an eye if Crowley had suddenly become _sensible._

But there was normal Crowley Chaos and there was _whatever on earth had gotten into him recently._

At the time, insulting a jumper that didn’t as of yet fully exist and so therefore _surely_ didn’t warrant such criticism (Crowley did not need to know that it was in fact, going a _little_ astray), then changing his mind a second later, barely registered as out of the ordinary. That sort of occurrence happened at least once a week.

But as the days had gone on, Aziraphale realised Crowley had a… _thing,_ about that jumper.

He jumped like a startled cat whenever Aziraphale took it out, which at first was rather amusing, and lead to Aziraphale intentionally leaving it around in places Crowley would come across it. At least until Crowley had taken on a slight tinge of mania, and Aziraphale took pity.

The skittishness then morphed into a really quite wonderful few weeks in which Aziraphale was propelled out the door near constantly for cake, or the theatre. Quite often cake _and_ the theatre. Aziraphale therefore had decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. If this was where Crowley’s peculiar excess energy had channelled itself then he would readily except every cherry bakewell and London cheesecake levied his way. And get in a spot of knitting, whilst he had the chance.

That had prompted the whiteboard. 

When Crowley had come back one night smelling very strongly of bonfire, the tips of his hair a little singed, Aziraphale had thought about asking for a grand total of three seconds before deciding he simply didn’t want to know.

When it came to Crowley, sometimes it was just _better not to ask._

Aziraphale had made them both hot chocolates (Crowley loved them piled high with whipped cream, bountiful marshmallows, and a hint of cinnamon, despite anything he venomously said to the contrary).

Perhaps on this occasion Aziraphale had overfilled them a _tad_ too much, for with every step they threatened to spill over the sides. (It had not occurred to Aziraphale that he was an angel. And that there just _might_ be some kind of miracle-ing he could employ to prevent this. Hence: slow steps as he concentrated very hard on keeping the whipped cream as a mountain and not an avalanche).

He’d almost made it when he heard Crowley’s voice, and looked up. 

The jumper – and it really was coming along; the holes in it were now _meant_ to be there – was settled on a table top. Crowley was circling it, not too close, bouncing edgily on his toes as if it were about to pounce at any moment. He was also muttering darkly to it, so invested that he’d yet to notice Aziraphale, watching from afar and catching every other word. Some highlights included: _murderous, accursed,_ \- worryingly - _incinerate,_ \- even _more_ worryingly - _annihilate, toothpaste_ (no idea) and _unholy resurrection._

Aziraphale blinked. A trickle of cream ran down the side of one mug. He turned abruptly on his heel and went back the way he had come.

“Just walk away,” he murmured to himself. “Just walk…away.”

He’d try again in ten. He’d just miracle the drinks hot again (it still didn’t register that he could maybe just miracle them straight there. It most probably never would), and try again in ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley: *doing some weird ass shit*
> 
> Aziraphale: honey, I love you, but wtf


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley was sitting in a café. It wasn’t that he’d particularly been aiming for that particular café, or any café actually, but more that he’d found himself there. He could still see the bookshop through the big glass window up front however, so clearly whatever part of his unconscious had sent him walking senselessly found anything longer than a minute too taxing, and had promptly given up.

He was perched on a stool along a counter adorned with glass displays of donuts and muffins, staring at a packet of Frazzles on the back wall and identifying strongly with them. (The ‘frazzled’ part. Not the fact that they were crisps. Not unless some accidental crisp-ification of his limbs had taken place without him noticing).

Crowley was at the end of his tether. The jumper remained stubbornly unthwarted – in fact it was nearing utter completion. And it made no logical sense, (I think we can all agree that logic had far since been punted up the arse and out the nearest open window), but he couldn’t help thinking of it like a bomb ticking quietly – but with a somehow _sinister_ tick, let it be known – down to disaster. As if once finished it would trigger a _monumental_ catastrophe, though whether catastrophe's could be anything other than monumental, due to the nature of being catastrophe's and not slight piss-takes, was up for debate. 

Even _threats_ didn’t work. Not a thing he said seemed to touch it. Crowley had had to go and hiss at a wilted pot plant until it had stood magnificently to attention (and was also shaking….well, like a leaf. An overseen screaming match between a snake eyed demon and a fern may be more responsible for the origin of that phrase than commonly believed) in order to convince himself he hadn’t somehow lost the knack for it.

The spider diagram was exhausted. The whiteboard was covered with dense scrawl in what Crowley had been certain was a whiteboard pen and so was of course Sharpie.

There was nothing for it but to wait for the inevitable.

His head in his hands, Crowley idly bounced his glasses up and down on his nose with his fingertips, his feet sliding away and together again on the rung of the stool with a squeak that was attracting several miffed glances from the other patrons. One man even took it up a notch to a miffed _glare._

Crowley abandoned the Frazzles. Stared morosely at an almond slice.

“Alright then, I’ll take the bait.”

Startled, Crowley let his glasses fall back in place and looked up at a man in an apron leaning by the coffee equipment behind the counter. 

“What?” he said a little dazedly.

The man flipped a tea-towel over his shoulder, exuding boredom and reluctant interest. (Amazing what you can tell from a towel flip).

“You’ve been moping about in here for hours. Twice I’ve asked if you actually want something.”

Crowley stayed quiet.

“I took the silence as a no by the way,” he said, with a small sarcastic shrug that almost dislodged his artfully placed tea-towel.

Crowley made a vague noise; the most useful kind of noise, he had found.

“And this,” continued the man, circling his finger to indicate Crowley’s general despondent slump, “better be interesting, ‘cos I’ve spent my entire morning thinking up reasons why you’d look that harried.”

“Harried?” Crowley echoed.

“Hassled.”

“Hassled?”

“Harassed.”

Crowley sunk his head back into his palm before he was treated to anymore synonyms. 

‘Aloof’ seemed a fittingly mysterious state for a demon. Crowley always _shot_ for aloof, and had a habit of falling short. What ‘habit of falling short’ really meant was that he’d never once managed to contain himself enough for ‘aloof’. The first hint of a willing ear, or actually just any ear, whether they were interested or not (the frequency with which he spoke to himself suggested, in fact, that ears or in fact an audience at all was an entirely arbitrary requirement), and the words came tumbling out.

The man – it seemed safe to say that he worked there, or was otherwise very committed to the workplace apron as a fashion choice – crossed his arms as Crowley sat up straight.

“A jumper has ruined my life,” he said dramatically.

The man looked considerably less impressed than expected.

“Right.”

“It’s cursed!” Crowley hissed.

“Sure.”

Slightly offended, Crowley petulantly crossed his own arms, until the man sighed deeply and stopped slouching against the machinery.

“I hate that I’m this invested now,” he muttered, and leaned forward to brace one hand on the counter opposite Crowley. He spun a finger of his other one in a little upright circle. “From the top.”

So Crowley launched into the horror. The impending devastation. The misery of inevitable ruination. The –

The man Wiki’d it since Crowley was taking an awful long time with flamboyant introductions, and got to the crux of it within a sentence.

Marvin (that was the name on the nametag, and so therefore _probably_ his name) steepled his fingers and rested them underneath his nose. “…and _why_ exactly,” he said drily, “can’t you just tell him about this ‘curse’ thing again?”

“Because it’ll get me that way too!”

Telling Aziraphale was out of the question. He’d likely think Crowley was talking utter rubbish, and – Crowley knew, from the rabbit hole of online forums he’d dived down - _Disagreement over Superstition_ was another wily branch of the curses’ evil. An entire sub-chat was dedicated to it. Therefore, Crowley was dealing with the high-level threat himself. 

(It wasn’t Crowley’s turn to use the braincell, you might have noticed).

As Marvin listened, he closed his eyes, and when Crowley finished, letting hands that had been gesticulating so wildly he’d near smacked Marvin in the face twice fall to the table, he took a moment to walk away. Crowley watched as he opened the tiny fridge all the milk was kept in, peered at it blankly for few seconds, then closed it and came back, pinching the skin between his brows.

“Dude. You’re an idiot.”

Affronted, Crowley sat up straight.

“I’m sorry?”

Marvin gave him a withering look and pointed out of the window. “That’s you two right? The bookshop?” At that he frowned deeply. “Which I coulda sworn burned down actually,” he added in a slightly perplexed mumble.

Crowley shuffled nervously on his stool.

Marvin took a breath. “Anyway the point is I can’t believe you’re actually putting stock in this ‘curse!’ I have delivered many a muffin across the road-”

“You have?” Crowley interrupted, surprised. He didn’t recognise Probably-Marvin _at all._

“I’m in and out fairly quick. No offense but your shop gives me the creeps, like the very air doesn’t want me there,”

“No, yeah, that’s fairly accurate,” Crowley said faintly. That explained it.

Annoyed at the interruptions, Marvin continued. _“The point is._ I see you and your partner all the time around here. It’s clear he could not love you more.”

One of Crowley’s feet - one of the one’s which had been until that very instant making the _very_ grating squeaking sound - slipped off the rung in surprise, and Crowley almost lurched off the stool to the floor.

Now flustered as well as frazzled, he fumbled for words.

“Ngk- hg-” 

He struggled with the task. 

“You – you really think so?” he eventually said, a little breathlessly.

Marvin rolled his eyes. _“Yes._ Jesus.”

A smile that wasn’t at _all_ pleased-and/or-bashful played around Crowley’s mouth. (Again, aloof had never been a strong point).

Marvin continued “You really think a _jumper_ is gonna fuck that up? _Seriously?”_

Crowley fidgeted. “Well-”

Marvin leaned close, elbows on the counter. “It’s _wool,_ my guy.”

“But – but -” Crowley gestured impatiently just, kind of, _around. “The supernatural forces!”_

“Here’s a daring thought,” Marvin began, with a more than ample helping of sarcasm, “could it _just_ be possible for it to be self-fulfilling prophecy? Just maybe?”

Crowley shut his mouth.

Come to think of it; there was definitely at least one filing cabinet on those downstairs.

Marvin exasperatedly pulled the tea towel from his shoulder and stood. “Just let him knit you a jumper – it’ll be awful and incredibly sweet, you moron.”

Aziraphale _would_ get all pleased. Crowley _might_ even be treated to the stupid and not at _all_ charming wiggle.

“Oh.”

Marvin spread his hands.

“Is that it?”

Crowley shook himself. Sent him a questioning look.

“Is that really the reason you’ve been sitting like a harbinger of death in my eyeline for three hours?”

“Er. Yeah.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah that was it.”

Marvin looked disappointed and annoyed. Predominantly annoyed. “Woulda thought it was the fucking apocalypse or something.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley visits some friends

Crowley was loitering outside of a community centre. It had moved from ‘waiting’ to ‘loitering’ when he’d perched on a railing and earned a disapproving look from the attendant inside every five minutes.

The Knitting Fiends meeting had begun four disapproving looks ago. And still, Crowley numbed his bum on the incredibly uncomfortable railing instead of entering.

The long and the short of it was that after the enlightening chat with Marvin The Exasperated, Crowley could admit one and a half things.

One: The situation had not been handled well.

One Point Five: There was a slight possibility that he _was_ being a bit of an idiot. (This was One Point Five, and not Two, because it was a subset of point One. Some might say the cause).

It was clear that trying to halt the unstoppable tide of the jumper was futile – and a little foolish (he _did_ get cold), - and well, _if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,_ as it were.

(And y’know, if they cancelled each other out by _both_ enacting the curse, then that was an added bonus).

Aziraphale was getting a jumper too. 

One Crowley had made for him, it should be specified, not just one from M&S.

(Not that an M&S jumper wouldn’t be well received, for the record, Mr Marks-and-or-Spencer, if they happen to be reading).

Hence, Crowley was bruising bones in his arse that seemed to have appeared for the sole purpose of being bruised by the cold railing outside the community centre. If he was to have any hope not just in hell but in any realm of completing even a semblance of a jumper, he was going to need some help.

Fortunately, he knew exactly where to find exactly the sort of people he needed, who would serve tea and cake whilst they were at it.

…Unfortunately, he _had_ sort of, just a bit, disappeared on them without a word of goodbye when, to put it blandly, Shit had Hit the Fan for a bit.

Crowley, the Serpent of Eden, was obviously very terrifying, wildly intimidating, and an all-round not-to-be-messed-with Demon from Actual Hell, and so clearly wasn’t at all hesitating to enter and retrieve help for fear of the wrath of Grace and Tasmin and Jem’s trembly bottom lip.

He was just making friends with the railing, is all.

When betrayed by his new friend mere moments later as his finger touched gum and he swung dangerously backwards to the concrete below, he scrambled to regain his balance and decided it was Time.

The doors swung open dramatically (because it was Crowley that was pushing them, and not because they had any inherent dramatic tendencies) as he entered the room, and in the freaky way the circle had somehow perfected everyone stopped in perfect synchrony to look up at him.

The doors swung closed meekly.

Crowley cringed inwardly and tried not to cringe outwardly as he saw the murder in the circle’s eyes. The fact that _everyone in the room was holding miniature stakes_ dawned on him and he began to wonder whether that Wikihow article was really _that_ hard to understand on his own.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” 

That, already, was devastating.

“In case you couldn’t tell,” said Tasmin, “there’s a feeling of collective reproach for just skipping out on us.”

The chair that had unofficially been Crowley’s was kicked away in demonstration, squeaking hideously on the floor and in all actuality, not really going far. It had the same effect as trying to slam a soft-close door.

Tom rolled his eyes at the dramatics and leaned back in his chair, around the backs of the circle, to wave hello. Crowley waved back and Tom flipped the bird to the hiss of _’traitor!’_ sent his way.

Jem, for their part, beamed and mouthed _‘cuppa?’_ Crowley nodded gratefully.

“You abandoned us right as peak knitting season started! That’s an unforgivable offence!” said Grace.

Being on the _receiving end_ of the grave nods was rather unpleasant, it turned out.

“Ahhhh. About that-”

“Don’t think we hadn’t noticed you conveniently left when it was your turn to provide the cake - we had to suffer Jamie’s dry Madeira instead,”

“Hey!”

Grace turned to Jamie. “No offense,”

“Yeah the last one was alright!”

“-If you put it with the jam,” chipped in Casey.

“Well yes _obviously_ with the jam but-”

“Off topic!”

They snapped back to where Crowley had gratefully received his tea and was naïvely hoping to just slip back into the group unnoticed.

“Overall,” finished Grace, “we’re a bit put out.”

Crowley moved the tea from hand to hand as the mug burned his fingers. _“Guys-”_

“Nope! No _‘guys’_ -ing us,” smirked Tasmin.

“We’re waiting on the reason you cast us aside,” finished Grace.

“Bit harsh,” muttered Crowley.

“And I can tell you now,” she finished, “whatever you say isn’t good enough.”

Crowley sputtered.

“Hang about! I had to go fend off the apocalypse!” he declared indignantly.

There was a chorus of what are traditionally seen as acknowledgements, namely _‘yeah’, ‘totally’_ and _‘uh-huh,’_ which of course meant no one believed him.

Crowley persisted. “No seriously – the _actual apocalypse_ was happening guys-”

_“-‘Guys,’”_

He ignored it.

“Four Horseman, raining fish, the works! That’s a genuine excuse _s_ _urely!_ Trying to stop the world from ending?!”

There was a lone _‘Definitely’_ which meant _‘No, you’re talking shite.’_

“You should be thanking me!” he said desperately, and then paused as he thought.

“Well, no.”

A second more passed and he blinked in slight surprise as it dawned on him.

“We didn’t do anything at all really, now I come to think of it.”

Tasmin cleared her throat. “We?”

At this point Crowley blushed in a way he absolutely never did, and THAT caught the attention of the group. The chair that was ceremoniously shoved away was dragged back into its rightful place and Crowley gratefully sunk into it.

“That’s er, that’s kind of why I’m here actually. ‘We’ is um,” he said, trying out another filler word, “me and Aziraphale.”

Of course, they all knew who Aziraphale was. Crowley _might_ have mentioned him just once or twice. Y’know, not _obsessively_ or anything….

(Everyone had worked out Crowley was head over heels for him by the end of the first half hour of meeting number one).

The circle waited with bated breath.

“That better mean what I hope it means. We as in… _we?”_

Crowley squirmed. Did a bit more of that infernal flushing he didn’t do.

“Yep.”

He fought to keep his tea steady and stop it from sloshing everywhere in the ensuing delighted ruckus.

‘Thank god,’ was said a lot. Crowley wasn’t sure She had anything to do with it.

_…Actually…_

His train of thought was cut short.

“Wait,” said Tom over the natter of the group, his hands spread wide and trepidation in his voice, “if you’re now part of new and improved, comma-less, ‘Aziraphale-and-Crowley,’ and you’ve sought out the _Knitting Fiends…”_

Jem gasped and would have comically dropped a glass if they’d been holding one. Wide eyed, they looked at Crowley. _“The Curse.”_

Crowley pressed his lips together. Gravely, he nodded his affirmation.

FINALLY, the desired reaction.

Uproar.

Grace stood decisively and started gathering weapons from her bag (knitting needles, and a spare pair of especially clodhoppery boots that would double very effectively as clubs) as if to physically fight off the threat.

Crowley felt vindicated.

“No!” Grace exclaimed, one foot propped on her chair, “not know you’ve finally got your heads out your asses and talked to each other!”

…Okay _slightly_ less vindicated and quite a bit more offended.

“Now hang on-”

“We’ve got to do something,” interrupted Jem. “Stop this. Anybody know any survivors we can call on?!”

“Survivors?! You’re hysterical – there’s no such thing!” said Jamie of the Dry Cake. He turned and grabbed Crowley’s hand tightly and _there;_ all the work he’d put into not spilling hot tea all over himself was ruined. “Don’t worry; we’ll vanquish this.” 

“Here’s the thing,” said Crowley, accepting the state of his now sodden lap, “I’m not going to vanquish it.”

Everyone stopped.

“…Is ‘ _Hypnotism’_ a new curse power? - Someone get googling.”

For the record, it wasn’t.

(Crowley had checked).

“Look, listen,” he began, whilst all eyes were still on him, “this guy that might work in a coffee shop had a bit of a point…”

And so he explained. Grace slowly sat.

“Well of COURSE it’ll be sweet,” she said once he’d finished.

“-Tooth-rottingly,”

“-Fucking lovely actually,”

“-No question about that.”

“I don’t think anybody was ever questioning the _intent-”_

 _“Hence,”_ Crowley interrupted them. It wasn’t often he got to use ‘hence’ aloud. “Hence: the New Plan.”

He set about telling them the New Plan. (They asked about the Old Plans. A montage of daft and disturbing images flashed through Crowley’s mind’s eye, and he decided that those details should _remain_ there. He had a feeling the group might take the piss). 

Everybody relaxed back in their seats. “To clarify,” said Tasmin, “you need our help to knit Aziraphale a jumper in return?”

“…Yes. Please.” There was a second where Crowley went to take a sip of tea and only remembered at the last moment that it was currently soaking into his trousers. “…So…you in?”

“Definitely dude!” said Casey, “though can I just say I’m so glad you’re not under the illusion that you’re capable of doing it yourself.”

She reached over to the basket that housed the works in progress that would forever _stay_ in progress, and with the tips of her fingers plucked out a knitted something of Crowley’s that, admittedly, was questionable.

Honestly, Crowley had no fucking clue what he’d been trying to knit there.

Whatever it was was dropped back in the basket. 

“It’s agreed then,” said Tasmin.

“I still think this is risky,” muttered Grace.

“Crowley knows what he’s doing, I’m sure,” said Jem.

 _“That,”_ Grace flung out an arm and pointed at him, “is someone who has never once known what they were doing.”

Crowley couldn’t even feel insulted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace: this guy has no fucking clue what’s going on
> 
> Crowley: damn I didn’t expect to be read like that


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make or break time

The final product existed only because the group were there to save it.

Also, it was sleeveless. It was a choice. A choice that wasn’t intentional to begin with, at all, by any means, but a choice that _became_ intentional, after several run ins with these sleeve things went rather severely awry.

The plan had thus changed rapidly to a very tasteful sleeveless cardigan, with a not quite so tasteful and extremely over-ambitious pattern (it began as Fair Isle, ended as diamonds. No one was sure quite how that had happened).

The buttons, at least, were entirely Crowley’s doing, and on there securely. Wonkily, but securely.

Overall, it was…

...in a word, that is to say, it was…

Hideous.

Crowley was strangely proud of it. After he’d gotten over the slight, reflexive shudder of revulsion that had ran through him once he’d begun to enact the curse _himself,_ of course – though in his defence the rest of the knitting club hadn’t been helping matters on that front. Tom had brandished a broom as the first stitch was completed.

Whilst Aziraphale was busy downstairs in the shop (and no, Crowley had no idea what he was actually ‘busy’ with - it certainly wasn’t making window displays or any other bookshop-y activities), Crowley appraised his finished garment, holding it by its shoulders in the air.

Half of him had hoped the soft light of the bookshop’s flat would be forgiving. It wasn’t.

The cardigan was beige, brown, and rust orange (Grace’s condition to working on it was that it HAD to have a colour in there somewhere), the front emblazoned with the pattern that morphed into three patterns at once – it was impossible to pinpoint where the change had begun, like some argyle optical illusion. Thus, it looked completely different depending on which angle it was viewed at.

The aforementioned wonky buttons were large cream and brown swirls, reminding Crowley very strongly of a specific brand of marbled chocolate buttons he could have sworn existed but had never been able to track down (he also had a wild memory that they had Fimbles on the packet and honestly couldn’t say why he knew that. The point was that he had a strange urge to bite the buttons like…buttons. But of the chocolate variety).

It did have pockets though. Not big enough to put a hand in, don’t be absurd. Just tiny front pockets big enough to store a few coppers, though they’d probably fall out of the holes in the loose knit.

A very big part of Crowley wanted to just abandon the whole thing and go back to destroying the original instigator of the entire mess (he’d since had a few ideas about acid that he thought were promising), but the other part of him, the bit that housed the pride in the assault on the eyes he’d created, wanted Aziraphale to have it. 

A few days later, Crowley was squishing a foot and near dislocating an ankle with the way he’d folded himself into a chair. Rain was sheeting down outside, so he was cradling the obligatory hot chocolate he’d made mostly because Aziraphale had dropped obvious hints and a level stare his way until Crowley’d slunk off to make them.

(It’s not that he didn’t want to make the hot chocolates - it was absolutely pissing it down, they were required – it was that he preferred the way Aziraphale made them. And also he wished there was _some kind of way_ he could get them from the kettle to the chairs without spilling any).

Aziraphale had been acting strange all day, but the _good_ kind of strange, where he was struggling to contain something he was obviously very pleased-and-or-excited about. The conspicuous lack of the jumper on his person made Crowley certain he knew what was coming.

As if on cue, Aziraphale stood far more grandly than was needed for a rainy Wednesday afternoon, and Crowley lowered the volume on Midsomer Murders (the area really should have run out of people to be murdered by now, surely).

“I have something for you my dear,” Aziraphale announced, and bustled off as Crowley took the last, apprehensive gulp of his hot chocolate.

Marvin from across the road was probably right. Nothing awful was about to happen. Crowley’d go and have some _very_ strong words (and probably a teacake actually, they _had_ looked nice) if the metaphorical jumper-curse-bomb went off and in an extremely non-metaphorical sense fucked everything to high heaven.

Aziraphale returned, pleased as punch, brandishing a brown paper parcel. It crinkled as it was thrust into Crowley’s hands.

“You wrapped it,” said Crowley dumbly.

“It’s a present,” Aziraphale said, settling himself back down expectantly.

“But I know full well what this is,”

“Don’t spoil the fun, Crowley,” he chided, momentarily throwing Crowley a reproachful look.

Abashed, Crowley tore the paper from the centre outwards, so the contents all but sprung up and smacked him in the face.

In his lap was recognisably ~~his nemesis~~ his _former_ nemesis: the navy jumper. The instigator of several weeks of stress and several thousand google searches about curse breaking.

Unfurling it, Crowley held it up, and thanked a deity of choice that it was only marginally better executed than his own attempt.

It was mostly the navy that he’d gotten used to looking over his shoulder for, with a yellow stripe across the middle that was actually more of a wave. The collar was stretched out lopsidedly, and the sleeves – for it could boast having sleeves over Crowley’s creation – were so extraordinarily long that Crowley could already see the slap potential in all that extra material in his mind’s eye.

“Ta-da!” said Aziraphale. Crowley looked past the jumper to see his pleased smile creasing the skin by his eyes and really bloody hoped the jumper wasn’t about to unleash curse destruction because in that instant he _loved_ it.

Aziraphale made shooing motions with his hands to urge Crowley to try it on and so, after a few seconds grappling with untwisting himself and finding that ankles really _aren’t_ meant to bend like that, he stood and shrugged it over his head.

Immediately he found that he was right about the sleeves, and wafted about hands that were completely engulfed so the rest of the sleeve drooping past his fingertips whipped through the air. He grinned.

_Brilliant._

Aziraphale had scrunched his nose as he took in the ill fit. “Ah.”

Crowley flapped his hand once more and almost sent his empty hot chocolate mug flying at the TV, right between Inspector Barnaby’s eyes.

“Uhm,” began Aziraphale, “there must be a way to make some adjustments…”

“Don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley blushed (which as it turned out, he did sort of do, around Aziraphale) and obliged him with a little spin, feeling rather like a maypole with his flapping sleeves. He cleared his throat.

“I actually have something for you too, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted in hopeful surprise. “Really?”

Crowley had already turned to hastily retrieve the something, so he threw a _‘yep’_ over his shoulder, popping the ‘p’.

He forgot that his hands had been lost to endless navy wormholes when he went to pick it up and was surprised at the sudden inefficiency of his hands before he remembered, and spent a few seconds shoving wool up to his elbows.

Picking it up went better during the second attempt, and he hurried back.

He shot Aziraphale a little glare upon return. “It’s not wrapped; I didn’t know we were doing _wrapping,_ for the record. That was foul play.”

He plonked the bundle in Aziraphale’s lap and threw himself back into his chair, his feet dancing on the floor with how suddenly, overwhelmingly nervous he found himself.

Aziraphale unfolded the soft pile, seemed to take a few seconds to work out what he was actually looking at (Crowley didn’t begrudge him that – there’d been a whole debate at the knitting club about which way up it was meant to be at one point), then seemed to realise _exactly_ what he’d got in return for his own homemade jumper.

“Oh!”

“Ta-da,” Crowley echoed.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with wide eyes. “You made this? For me?”

Crowley scratched his ear in an attempt to fend off embarrassment and was again thwarted by the excess flop of his sleeve. “I might’ve had some help,” he mumbled, “but yeah, that’s for you.”

Aziraphale looked down at the cardigan, running his hand over a particularly lumpy bit, and Crowley, swaddled in his itchy jumper (It was so. Terribly. Itchy), held his breath.

He reckoned this’d be the moment things went tits up. He waited for curse related tragedy to befall them.

A second went by, and nothing happened.

A second second passed.

A great flash of lightening made Crowley jump on the third second, and if there was a cue for a curse getting its arse into gear then it was that.

Aziraphale stood. Crowley tensed.

And watched as Aziraphale put the cardigan on, turning soft eyes his way.

_“Thank you,_ Crowley.”

That was it.

They’d survived.

Internally, Crowley started on a victorious chorus of _fuck you-_ ing to the curse (which had of course never once worried him, as a clearly superior creature of hell), and whilst he was there also to several other people who’d pissed him off in the last twenty-four hours; namely the Fiat 500 driver who’d executed a sixty point turn out of a parking space, and the Audi who’d subsequently raced round the corner and stolen the space from him once it was finally free.

Midsomer Murders cut to one of the many ad breaks that made it two hours long, and Crowley propped his feet up on the coffee table in celebration, wondering if there was some kind of badge the knitting club could give him for escaping the curses’ clutches.

Aziraphale tsk-ed at him and brushed his feet straight back off, too pleased with his new knitwear to be properly annoyed. He picked up his own empty mug and came by to collect Crowley’s.

“Just two questions,” he said, and looked at Crowley, bemused. “Are you ever going to tell me what all that palaver was about?” He raised an eyebrow and plucked at the jumper settled on Crowley’s shoulders.

Ah. So Crowley had not been as discreet as he’d thought.

He lifted his chin, and met Aziraphale’s eyes, too drunk on the defeat of the relationship ruining curse to feign ignorance, and simply said:

“Nope.”

(Because, despite popular opinion, he wasn’t an ACTUAL idiot. He wasn’t about to go and do something as dumb as mentioning it by _name_ ).

(Just in case).

He smiled up, and Aziraphale entertained his evasion, rolling his eyes.

“Second question?” Crowley prompted.

“Yes,” Aziraphale began, decidedly more puzzled, and looked down at the zigzagging knitted pattern across his chest. “Why _orange?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the Fimbles buttons reference seemed incredibly specific, that’s cos I gave you all a peek into my thought process every time I don a specific cardigan of mine.
> 
> This is the end of what I had planned for this so I hoped you enjoyed this bit of fun


End file.
